


these waters aren't what they used to be

by redandgold



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Age of Sail, M/M, a truly appalling number of inside jokes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-06
Updated: 2018-10-06
Packaged: 2019-07-20 15:36:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16140266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redandgold/pseuds/redandgold
Summary: When the S.S.League of Their Owngets rekt, Jack and Jamie must struggle to find a way off a mysterious desert island – but what happens when their only hope is the murderous Captain Henry?





	these waters aren't what they used to be

**Author's Note:**

  * For [saltstreets](https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltstreets/gifts).



>  
> 
>   
> 
> 
> HAPPY BIRTHDAY SABS MY LOFF!!!! You're one of the funniest loveliest best people I know and I wanna go to berlin again just so that I can VORE YOU. I rly hope you like this. <333 

 

 

Jack would like to say that not remembering where he was did not happen often in his life, but he would be lying. The moral waywardness of his crewman Frederick – usually in the direction of the nearest winery – had soon put paid to any attempts at dignity or self-respect. Under different circumstances Jack insisted that he would have stood up for himself, although he knew that Frederick's murderous six-foot-three bulk was merely an excuse for his own general spinelessness.

This morning he seemed to find himself on something of an uninhabited desert island, with naught but his underpants and a singular shoe. There was nothing around him as far as he could see; there was, however, sand in the most uncomfortable of places, and he grimaced as he sat up. His skin was blistered red with all the signs of a terrible sunburn and/or an overcooked lobster.

"Well," he said, with feeling, "this could be better."

The first order of business was really to remember exactly what had transpired last night; unfortunately, his mind was about as blank as Redknapp's face whenever they started talking about things that required the use of intelligence. "Imagine not having an opinion on the way that Kant presents ethical theory," Jack muttered presently, standing up and trekking towards the water with his one good shoe, intent on a decent bath. "I might suggest some virtues for you to acquire, good sir."

A show, obviously; he was quite fond of Redknapp, stupidly handsome as he was (Jack would qualify that these two adjectives were to be used separately – Redknapp was stupid, but handsome). He was quite fond of all of them, really, and the sooner he came across anyone the better for it.

He was also quite fond of the cutter, which didn't seem to be anywhere in sight. Logically the best place to position a ship would have been on the beach, but it just so happened that Jack was on the beach, and his view was quite devoid of any ships or otherwise seaworthy vessels. The _League_ was small, but it certainly wasn't small enough to disappear on a horizon so plain it put good old Tony Bellew to shame.

"This isn't very cricket," Jack muttered, quite put out.

"OI!"

Now _that_ sounded awfully familiar, just as soon as Jack could make out exactly where it was coming from. Glancing around desperately – his echolocation abilities were as good as a bat's (eyesight, that was) – he endured the wrath of several more panicked shouts before finally realising that he had to look up.

" _James?_ "

Redknapp was, indeed, lodged firmly in the arms of some kind of a palm. A very sturdy palm, Jack would imagine, given the weight of the First Mate, _especially_ after they'd taken all those mince pies near Christmas.

He had kept his shirt (this was somewhat of a disappointment) but had lost his trousers (this somewhat made up for it) as well his sword and the eyepatch he insisted on wearing even though both his eyes worked fine, just because he was absolutely convinced by the London Illustrated News that one couldn't be a proper pirate without it.

"We're not even pirates," Captain Corden had pointed out, with the patient suffering anyone who had ever known and loved James Redknapp was bound to acquire at some point. "We're smugglers."

"Pirates sounds cooler," Redknapp had insisted, and looked so ready to throw a massive strop that they had all decided the potential drama was not worth correcting misconceptions.

Oh, Redders. He was lucky he was handsome.

"That's First Mate Redknapp to you," Redknapp bellowed from the top of the palm, one hand struggling to dislodge himself, the other struggling to keep his underwear from sliding down his legs. "Will you help me get out of this bloody tree?"

"I don't know," Jack replied, arching an eyebrow. "You look like you've got quite a handle on the situation, First Mate Redknapp."

"You melt," said First Mate Redknapp.

After a few more rounds of curse-flirting, Jack finally got around to climbing half-up the tree and grabbing a hold of Redknapp's legs. He'd never had any experience getting people or things out of trees – he was not what they called a fireman – and the rescue operation very nearly turned into an even bigger disaster as they managed to get themselves into some horribly sticky tangle with the tree, a mess of limbs and appendages too close for comfort.

"Hm," Jack said tartly, "when I dreamt of a threesome with you, me, and my palm, this was not quite what I had in mind."

"You are disgusting," said Redknapp.

At long last they managed to return to earth. Jack still had no idea where the _League_ was and was relying on Redknapp to remind him, once he'd finished using seawater to adjust his hair. If he'd somehow managed to shave using a shell and some seafoam Jack would not at all have been surprised.

"Do you remember what happened last night?" Jack asked when Redknapp was finally done. "Or the whole of yesterday, for that matter. I must have drunk far too much rum."

"I'm not surprised," Redknapp grumbled. "Captain Cantona plied you with so much drink we was all stunned you didn't explode."

Jack ignored the poor grammatical schooling of his crewmate (too much time spent in the company of Daniel Dyer) and instead hacked a loud cough, eyes bulging with surprise. "Captain _Cantona_?"

Redknapp blinked. "Bloody hell, you really don't remember anything at all, do you?"

"I remember my name and how many ships the _Arsenal_ has captured in her time," Jack mumbled, "but nothing else. You mean the _United_ has our ship?"

"Unfortunately," Redknapp said darkly. "Came out of nowhere yesterday. We was making the run through Sky Channel, d'you remember that, at least? They cut up through Dier Strait and right past us. Tried to slip away but they were broadside and we didn't want to get shot straight through, did we, as we would've. So James surrendered and they grabbed the _League_ , simple as anything."

Jack nodded politely, just to show that he was following, although he really still had no idea how ships worked. It was nice to watch them from afar and/or own them, but if Father hadn't disowned him for being a Danger to Society then there was no reason he would be on one.

"You were the poshest, so of course Cantona wanted to see you. I s'pose he thought you might know something about the _Arsenal._ "

"Are they still trying to find the treasure?" Jack sniffed. "It's been thirteen years. I doubt even the _Arsenal_ crew remember where they put it."

"And god knows they've got enough of their own," Redknapp glowered. Everyone knew that his time on the big pirate ships had been laughably barren, and that even when the _Liverpool_ had somehow acquired one of the legendary Ming Dynasty _Fa_ cups, Redknapp had been stuck on the mainland nursing a swollen gland.

"It was a sword wound," he'd tell anyone who listened (no one). "I got into a fight with Captain Blackbeard." At some point they'd drawn lots to see who would tell him that Captain Blackbeard had been dead for about eighty years, but none of them had really had the heart to.

"Yes, well." Jack valiantly attempted to steer the conversation away from past wrongs, of which there were many, and towards more pressing issues, like where his trousers were. "What happened after Cantona wanted to see me?"

"You remember that night you got so smashed you dragged Corden's dad to see a snake charmer in bed, and then you cried like a baby and sucked your thumb while pulling your pants over your head?"

Of course Jack _remembered_. Whether he wanted to was a completely different matter. He folded his arms and stared at Redknapp primly, trying his best to ignore the fact that one had really forsaken primness when one had only pants and a shoe on. "I don't know what you mean."

"It was kind of like that. You even yelled _I love the Manchester United_. The Dane was mad tickled."

Jack raised a horrified hand to his lips. "I never."

"You did." Redknapp's eyes belied the fact that he had seen some darkness that day. "And once Cantona figured out you had nothing, since you're such a shit liar, he decided to maroon us on islands. Except it was my luck that I ended up on the same one as you."

"This still doesn't explain why I have nothing save my underpants and one shoe," Jack said suspiciously. "Did you take advantage of me whilst I was drunk, James?"

If ever he saw a man's face turn so red so fast he did not remember it, save for the one party where he'd had too much to drink and thought his father had become a tomato. "What are you implying," Redknapp spluttered indignantly, sounding like a four-year-old having trouble stringing words together (which, to be fair, was an accurate description of him in general). "That I – that you – I – "

"Calm down, Socrates." It was a reference Redknapp would likely not get, which was all the more reason to make it. "I was implying nothing. What happened to _your_ trousers?"

"You took them." Redknapp eyeballed him. "We had a fight because you were drunk and then you. Took them from me. And threw them into the sea."

"Oh dear."

There was less regret for taking them away from Redknapp than there was for not having worn them instead. Jack risked a look down and winced; my word, was that underwear line going to hurt tomorrow.

Redknapp had not stopped his glowering, and Jack was starting to feel vaguely uncomfortable, as if he had been stared at for too long by an increasingly annoying Chihuahua.

"Well," he said in an admirable if completely transparent attempt to change the subject, "how do you propose we get off this island?"

"I dunno," Redknapp retorted, as always less helpful than Captain Corden was in a lightweight boxing tournament. (Jack didn't remember how they'd gotten into that; Jack didn't remember most of it, really, given how he was the lightest and so had alone suffered the wrath of Skinny 'Me Alive' Jones.)

"Use your brain, James," Jack chided, kicking at the sand with his remaining shoe, which promptly registered its protests by splitting open at the base. "I know yours is terribly small, but small things are often of some kind of value, as per your - "

"Do not finish that sentence," Redknapp warned, with considerably more threat than a half-naked sailor bereft of a ship should warrant.

"Will not finishing it help us get out of here?"

"You're the clever one," Redknapp snaps. "Isn't that what you're always telling people? Don't need muscle when you have brain?"

It was, as a matter of fact, something Jack always told people, but that was less truth and more to explain away his startling resemblance to undercooked sausage.

"All right. Well." Jack squints into the sun and wishes, immediately, that he'd done no such thing. "We can start a fire. The smoke ought to be visible for miles amongst a sky like this."

"Yes. Sure. What are we gonna start it with?"

A very insightful question he didn't yet have an answer to, still recovering as he was from the permanent damage he had sustained to his eyes. Between watching the sun and watching the _England_ sink off the coast of Argentina in 1798 it was a wonder Jack wasn't legally blind.

"Maybe palm leaves burn well," he suggested hopefully, looking at the mess they'd left behind trying to get Redknapp down.

"We still need the fire to burn them in the first place, you melt."

"Why don't you try staring at them like you're staring at me. _I'll_ burst into bloody flames soon."

"Sound. We'll use you as a flint and steel, then."

"I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I don't have an ounce of metal in me."

"No mettle neither."

"'Either', James. Do you still not speak English after all these years?"

"You're a melt," Redknapp says with authority. "A pointless, speccy melt."

Jack would have argued this, if not for the fact that Redknapp had - quite without knowing it, as per his tendency to be only unintentionally helpful - given them a lifeline.

"I wear spectacles!" he exclaimed in what he imagined was a similar fashion to Archimedes screaming _eureka._

Redknapp blinked at him.

"Y'wot?"

"I wear glasses." Very expensive silver ones too - a _shilling_ , Father had exclaimed, affronted to the point of apocalyptic rage - so he would be rather put out if they were gone along with everything else. "Do you remember seeing them at all since last night?"

Redknapp shrugged. "I dunno. Maybe on the beach somewhere."

"Well don't just stand there. Let's have a look, then."

Thus began an hour of searching for the metaphorical needle in the metaphorical haystack, where the haystack was the size of an entire beach, the needle was 90% transparent, and also there was the danger of sunstroke that you probably didn't have to worry about in a barn.

In the end there was a triumphant shout from Redknapp and Jack had to concede that he wasn't all that useless after all (not that this was, of course, said out loud; Jack rather feared that if Redknapp heard it his ego would implode). The eyeglasses had been bent beyond recognition and one of the lenses had been shattered, but that was no issue - he just needed one.

"It's burning," Redknapp said suddenly, as if he had only come to terms with the existence of the sun.

"Wear a hat, then," Jack sniffed, although Redknapp had a point; he didn't know how long more before both their brains would be turned into mush.

Redknapp, wordlessly and calmly, grabbed a palm leaf and put it onto his head, tore a strip off the end of his shirt, and tied it into place.

It was - it was a decent idea. "Maybe we ought to get firewood to help," Jack suggested, and waited for Redknapp to walk out of sight before doing the same palm hat trick. Except he wasn't going to bloody well rip up his underwear, which meant he just sort of had to balance it precariously like a clown balancing a plate.

To his credit, Redknapp said nothing when he returned with various sticks, although Jack did see his chest puff out in pride a little bit.

Most of the driftwood was dry, which probably was a good indication that it would burn. "Right," Jack said decisively, piling the sticks in with the leaves. "All we have to do is hope that the lens catches the sun."

"Not a bloody problem with that," Redknapp growled, scowling for all the world like he wanted to pick a fight with Apollo and would win it too.

And soon, in accordance with the laws of montage and MacGyverism, they had a fire going. A thin but dark spiral of smoke coiled into the perfectly blue sky, as perfect a summoner of salvation as a hypothetical tin bat nailed onto a searchtorch.

"Now we wait," Jack said, tucking his hands behind his head and leaning against the palm to get a kip.

"You've got some faith," Redknapp said tartly, coming to sit beside him.

"Why's that a bad thing?"

"I didn't say it was."

For the first time since the morning Redknapp grinned at him and, without question or consideration, Jack grinned back.

 

*

 

A throat was being cleared. And not in some kind of gross surgical way, either, but a real life person _hem-hemming_ loudly in Jack's ear. Redknapp would hardly have been this polite, which meant that this was someone else entirely. Jack cracked an eye open.

A very handsome balding man stood in front of him, arms crossed, squinting. And if there was one thing Jack knew, it was that the _Arsenal_ had no shortage of handsome balding squinty men.

"You're Freddie Ljungberg," he said, in a tone usually reserved for talking to God in church.

"We saw your smoke signal," Ljungberg said, the hero worship slipping off of him like a certain Scouse captain. "You are to come with us."

"Just me?" Jack said hopefully, sparing a glance at Redknapp, whose head had somehow slipped down whilst they were sleeping and had ended up on Jack's shoulder. (It was not, Jack had to admit, the worst of situations, but the threat of death was enough to distract him momentarily from the connotations of that thought.)

"Both of you." Ljungberg sounded terribly bored. "Wake him up."

Jack jerked his shoulder and enjoyed the immense satisfaction of Redknapp snapping awake in the middle of lurching towards the ground.

"Wakey wakey, First Mate Redknapp," Jack chirped cheerfully. "We're going to board the _Arsenal._ I doubt you'll ever get as close to greatness again in your life. Myself excluded, of course."

Redknapp mumbled "the _Arsenal_?" at the same time as Ljungberg mumbled "First Mate Redknapp?", both of their eyes comically widening. It wasn't quite the reaction Jack had expected.

"It's an honour to meet you, sir," Ljungberg said, giving Redknapp a deep nod and sweeping his hand towards the pinnace.

"I have a bad feeling about this," Jack said, though no one seemed to hear him.

 

*

 

The _Arsenal_ might not have had the agility/firepower balance that third-rate ships of the line like the _United_ were known for, nor the aging grandeur of the three-decker _Liverpool,_ or even the cheek of that fully-financed upstart frigate _City -_

Hm. Start over.

The sixth-rated _Arsenal_ might only be a slender brigantine, but it was fast, adaptable, and its rating was just enough to squeeze into the bustling exclusive trade of Europa Bay. (Jack had been told more than once that Europa Bay's exclusiveness was more due to lack of demand than anything else, but denial was a free commodity.)

As they were bundled aboard - he was bundled, Redknapp got to _walk_ \- Jack stared around wide-eyed, knowing that such an opportunity might never come again. The decks were scrubbed pristinely. The fore-and-aft sails were magnificent; its cannons were gleaming; every inch of its eighty feet cried out for adoration. Even the rigging was beautifully done. "This," Jack said reverently to Ljungberg, "is a good knot."

"Shut up," Ljungberg said, rather less reverently.

They headed towards the stern, where two oak doors were no match for the fast-rising beating of Jack's heart. Beyond these doors lay the man he had spent his whole life dreaming about. It sounded slightly creepy and probably was, but that made it no less true.

When he had been but a wee ten-year-old, news came filtering through the English countryside that a young French crew had stormed the _Jules Rimet_ and left nothing behind. Granted, such was the inadequate security of the _Jules Rimet_ that it tended to be raided every few years, but the way Thierry had ripped through the hull completely sold Jack.

And when he'd joined the crew of the _Arsenal -_ well. Jack knew that pirates were his trading company father's nemesis, but he couldn't help carry a picture of Thierry everywhere, even to the bathroom and on the other pillow by his face.

Which spoke worlds about Jack's love life, really.

Ljungberg opened the door and there sat Captain Thierry Henry, resplendent in scarlet cravat, satisfyingly tight breeches, and cocked hat. Something else was cocked too, Jack couldn't help but notice, as Thierry stood up and strode towards the two of them.

"Redders!" he exclaimed.

"Big man!" Redknapp exclaimed.

"Whaaaat the fuck!" Jack exclaimed.

Both of them paused for a second to stare at him, and then resumed their happy reunion. The mesh of accents alone was a pain (Redknapp's generic South England did not, Jack sniffed, live up to Thierry's romantique French), to say nothing of the vast enjoyment that Redknapp was deriving from this, and finally the deep hurt of betrayal.

"How've you been, big man? Cripes, you look exactly the same."

"Of course. I need to keep up my image. And you? I haven't seen you since you stole the _Fa_ cup from under our noses!"

"Redknapp wasn't involved with the _Fa_ cup," Jack scoffed. "Everyone knows that."

If they hear him they certainly seem to take no notice.

"How's business? Heard it's been a bit slow, innit."

"Yes, yes. We have been trying to overtake the _United_ for the longest time but we cannot seem to catch up to them."

"Funny you should say that. Whitehall and I were just on board. Bloody hell, the state of that mob."

It was the first time he's been acknowledged and Jack perked up with the most pathetic of pleasures.

"Yes. Hi. Hello. I'm Jack. Whitehall. Call me Jack. Jackie. Whatever you'd like. I'm a huge fan of yours, Mr. Henry - Captain Henry - _monsieur_ Henry - "

"Ignore him," Redknapp said quite dismissively. "He's a bit of a melt."

Suddenly the banter of the past five years seemed to Jack the worst mistake he had ever made.

"You never told me you knew Captain Henry," he hissed, in a tone that seemed to imply being taken aside when Thierry was very obviously still within earshot. "Or indeed the crew of the _Arsenal_! Why didn't you tell me you were such a big shot?"

"I did," Redknapp sniffed, "you just didn't believe me, did you."

Jack slumped to the ground, stricken.

"We shall certainly see to your wounds and clothing," Thierry announced, signalling several of his men forward, "as well as those of your - whatever he is."

"He's not that bad, I suppose."

"I'm a very good boy," Jack affirmed. "I love Redknapp. James. Jamie. Jamie's been like a brother to me, haven't you, Jamie? Or something equally close but less familial. We get along swimmingly. Don't we?"

"Keep talking and you will be swimming," Redknapp - Jamie - Route to Thierry's Trousers - retorted. "C'mon. Let's get out of this kit before you wet yourself on the floor or summat."

 

*

 

They had some kind of grease slathered onto them which went a ways to helping with the sunburn, and then an unwilling Ljungberg scrounged clothes from whatever poor souls they had looted. You had never seen true happiness until you saw Jamie Redknapp reunited with his trousers.

"Decent little ship, innit?" Jamie whistled as they stepped onto deck, looking far more comfortable in his monmouth and billowy white shirt. Looking quite good, actually, for a man of his advanced age, loath as Jack was to admit.

Jack meanwhile had been given some red-and-white striped shirt which, although it suited the traditional colours of the _Arsenal_ 's flag, also made him look like a well-hidden character in a hypothetical children's illustration.

"Your mood has changed remarkably," he commented, marveling at the difference a piece of cloth could make. "Odd, considering our situation has not technically improved. We've still lost the _League_ , and we're prisoners on the most formidable pirate ship to ride these waves."

"I thought you adored the _Arsenal,_ " Jamie pointed out.

"I said that our situation hasn't technically improved, not that I wasn't secretly having multiple orgasms."

"I didn't need to know that."

"You didn't have to bring it up."

"Anyway. Why don't I go talk to Thierry and we'll see if we can get summat sorted."

"Why are you such good friends with him, anyway?" Jack whined, making a face. "You should've told me."

Jamie shrugged. "You all sorta tend to know each other after a while. And I didn't want to tell you otherwise you'd turn into the drivelling melt you are right now."

"I am neither drivelling nor a melt," Jack insisted, only to descend into complete incoherence as Dennis Bergkamp walked by.

"Uh-huh."

"Look, it's the Iceman himself! An exceptional case! The Master Gunner! I heard he's had a hundred and twenty successful shots on this ship alone - "

"I'm going to talk to Thierry." If Jamie got any more judgemental he might as well find a job at the Old Bailey. "You keep climbing up people's bums, powder monkey."

"You assume I'm not already wedged firmly in there," Jack muttered, reaching a rather less defiant conclusion than he might have liked.

 

*

 

There was eighty feet worth of _Arsenal_ for Jack to traverse whilst waiting for Jamie to sort things out with Thierry, an opportunity to annoy as many people as possible that he happily seized. Ljungberg had somehow managed to pass on babysitting duties with nothing more than a wink, and Jens Lehmann bore his fate with the countenance of an irate cat.

"I would've thought you did something far more interesting," Jack whined, after about ten minutes of watching Lehmann do nothing but make barrels.

"I'm the cooper," Lehmann growled. "I keep things. What did you expect?"

"You're very good at keeping things, messr Lehmann. I don't know. I just thought you'd do something else besides making barrels."

"A cooper is an important job."

"Not very glamourous, is it?"

Lehmann snorted. "Go talk to Bergkamp, then, or whatever. The faster you fuck off the better for me."

"What if he shoots me?"

"You're small fry." Lehmann rolled his eyes. "Plus you're Redknapp's friend, so the Captain won't let anyone touch you."

"Really?"

"Yes. Otherwise I would not be talking to you right now."

"Why?"

"Because you would be at the bottom of the sea and I would have put you there."

Jack scrunched up his nose. "You're no fun."

"I'm not paid to be."

"Maybe you can pay _me_ to be. I'm pretty funny."

"I hadn't noticed."

"Am too. Who should I see about this stuff, the Captain?"

"Take it up with Wenger."

"Wenger?"

"Figurehead." Lehmann nodded towards the prow of the ship. "He's who the ship's named after. Arsene Wenger."

"Really?" Jack wrinkled his nose. "I thought it was named after the word 'arsenal', since you hire so many Gunners."

"Nonsense. It's his name. Everyone knows that." Truly the amount of disdain that could be conveyed through a single look was astounding. "He is a genius. They say Captain Henry takes his cues from him. Hasn't hired an English type in years."

"Maybe I'll be the first."

Quartermaster Viera snorted rather unkindly as he walked by.

"I wouldn't hire you to eat my shitty biscuits for me," Lehmann said.

"Therein, sir, lies your mistake. I eat the shittiest biscuits. I am the finest biscuit eater."

"Can you eat your own words?"

Harrumphing, Jack flounced out of Lehmann's hole (nothing dirty) and up deck to the figurehead instead, which turned out to be some creaky, grandfather-looking old chap dressed, rather bizarrely, in a coat that was too long for him.

"You look nice," Jack told him, leaning over the railing on the prow. "Do you only give Captain Henry cues, or is it a service for anyone? God knows I need them."

"I hope you're not going to launch into a sob story," came a voice behind him. Jack whirled around to meet the amused gaze of Robert Pirès. "Every day someone wants to confess something else to Wenger, like he's some magical figure or something. Tires me out. Probably tires Wenger Out, too."

"Lehmann said Captain Henry takes orders from him."

Pirès snorted. "Jens believes anything. He, like, scribbles things on bits of hemp sail before battle because he thinks it's lucky."

"Why would anyone think that?"

"Are you really asking how the mind of Jens Lehmann works?" Pirès tilted his head to the side and squinted at Jack. "He's like an angry mop."

"What?"

"Sometimes I'm not sure he has a brain."

It wouldn't have occurred to Jack, ten hours ago, that he would be standing next to the magical figurehead of the _Arsenal_ listening to their greatest ever Sailing Master slag their cooper off, but here he was. It was unfortunate that he had only just acquired trousers to wet.

"You must like him a lot," he offered, "for you to say such terrible things."

Pirès stared at him for a long, quiet moment, then burst out laughing.

"Yes - yes, I suppose so," he got out between wheezes, shaking his head. "I suppose you could put it like that. The people we make fun of are the ones we love, eh?"

Jack thought, suddenly, of the existence of Redknapp; the First Mate's appearance in his brain at this expression of sentiment was quite enough to completely unsettle him, and had he not been in the company of Bobby Pirès he might have done something exceedingly questionable, like launch himself overboard as any true Englishman was wont to do upon the discovery of feelings.

As it was he limited his physical reaction to a flexing of the hand and and a deep, uncomfortable swallow (again, nothing dirty). "I suppose so."

The Sailing Master grinned at him with a look startlingly close to empathy. "It is a truth universally acknowledged that a bunch of single men on a ship indulge in frivolities that are probably closer to romance."

And he tilted his head towards Captain Henry's cabin with about as much subtlety as something not quite so subtle after all. Jack followed the motion, hardly daring to hope.

"Are you saying that the Captain is - well - also a Danger to Society?"

"We're pirates," Pirès reminded him. "By definition we are dangers to society."

"You know what I meant."

"I know what you mean."

"Well, is he?"

Pirès gave him a wink that was wholly indiscreet and quite unsuitable for anyone below the age of eighteen.

"What do you think your man Redknapp's been doing in there? Or why they're such good friends in the first place?"

Jack gasped.

 

*

 

"You can't go in there," Ljungberg started, although his attempt to get off of his seat and arrest Jack in time was severely thwarted by his having been soundly asleep when Jack made his move.

Jack crashed into the captain's quarters, wedged the door firmly shut, and felt the bottom of his mouth hit the floor at the sight that presented itself to him.

"Oh, 'lo, Jack," Jamie said, looking up as if everything was perfectly normal and Captain Henry was not on his knees with his mouth around Jamie's - there was no more polite way to phrase this without coming off as completely prudish - dick.

"What's going on," Jack asked, or rather attempted to ask, given that his words simply came out as one strangulated cry.

"Hello, Jack," Thierry said, with a charm and formality that did not befit the situation. "It's nice of you to join us."

He'd rocked back on his heels as he spoke, giving Jack full view of exactly what situation he was joining. Thierry wearing only his shirt, knees buried in the luxurious (stolen) carpet, one hand still touching Jamie's thigh. His tackle, Jack noticed with a discreet gulp, was already at attention, waiting for orders to ravish a skinny English boy.

Gone were the maps and documents that had once sat on the captain's table; Jamie had taken their place, the trousers he had been so keen on re-claiming now discarded alongside the charts on the floor. His shirt was gone, too, and he was arching back in a way that was really rather bothering Jack in all the places he oughtn't be bothered. God, no wonder he didn't need a brain if he had such a large -

"Aren't you coming?" Thierry asked, getting up and walking towards him.

"What?" Jack's mouth had never been drier, which wasn't, he supposed, quite what the situation required.

"You're not scared, are you?" Jamie grinned at him. "You've been implying that you wanted to fuck me for years."

Both were true - that he'd been pathetically into Jamie for years, and that he was frightened out of his skull. And there was also a third unmentioned fact - that he'd been incredibly pathetically into Thierry too, who happened to be standing right in front of him and leaning in.

Jack took the kiss in some state of complete shock. Thierry's lips were as rough as anyone who'd been under the sun for a while might expect to be, but by god he knew how to kiss. Jack's mouth parted under Thierry's tongue like water and he whimpered - actually _whimpered_ \- as Thierry pressed a hand into the front of his trousers.

"Please," he muttered as Thierry broke briefly away, "I _just_ found those again - "

But by now Jamie had slid off the table (how he did so without injuring himself was as yet a mystery) and a strange sort of hush fell over Jack's ears, as if someone had stuffed them full of cotton wool. He felt his feet moving, he felt Thierry's hand on his back pushing him forward, but none of it seemed particularly real until he was standing an inch away from Jamie's face, still flush from whatever illicit activities he and Thierry had been engaged in prior to the rude interruption.

"Was this more of the threesome you had in mind, big man?" Jamie asked, a smirk running up his lips.

"Oh, entirely," Jack breathed, making his mind up that the best way to wipe the smirk off Jamie's face would be to kiss him.

Their teeth clashed and Jack was fairly certain that he'd inevitably bitten something or other, but his headspace was far too clogged up with pleasure to notice anything else. He dug his fingers into Jamie's skin, savouring the warmth, the quiet groan that he elicited from Jamie as he pushed him back into the table.

Thierry behind him had wrapped an arm around Jack's waist and was fumbling with his trousers, yanking them without finesse down to his ankles. His other hand closed in on Jack's quickly hardening ldick, fingertip smearing the precome that had already leaked from the tip.

Two very naked, very good looking men he'd basically spent all his life adoring, and him. This was going to end well.

Jamie muttered something that might have either been a compliment or joke (Jack chose to take it as the former) and pulled him closer, rutting up against him. His lips were in an even worse state than Thierry's had been, but that wasn't stopping either of them.

"Maybe you want to finish what I started," Thierry suggested, in a voice that seemed to imply a quiet chat about navigational systems.

All of this, Jack thought fervently as he shrugged off his shirt, had to be some kind of dream. He worked his way down Jamie, pressing his mouth against his hot skin, licking the tip of Jamie's cock and hearing a sharp intake of breath. Jamie moaned as he curled his fingers into Jack's hair and yanked, hard, acquiring more force the faster Jack went.

"Bloody hell, Jack," Jamie got out between gasps, "didn't - Jesus - no wonder you're such a wanker - "

"Funny," Jack pulled off just to retort, only for Thierry to slip an oil-slicked finger into him, and that signalled the momentary end of his ability to produce any form of rational thought.

 

*

 

"Well."

They lay on Thierry's once luxurious carpet in a state of general disarray; Jack hadn't been this sore about anything since van Persie had jumped ship and helped the _United_ gain three nautical miles.

"It was a pleasure, gentlemen," he continued, taking advantage of Jamie's exhaustion-rendered immobility to snuggle on his chest. "I do hope there will be scope for more collaboration in the future."

"I might have to check with Arsene," Thierry said sleepily, cuddling on the other side, "but I imagine he will be all right with us taking you two in."

"That's sweet of him," Jamie muttered.

"Wait. Is it true he talks to you, then?"

Thierry shrugged. "He gives me cues. I can't quite explain. Things just happen."

"Hm." Jack still didn't know how Wenger managed, but he was far too sated to pursue the matter. "Anyway, you have a spot open, don't you?"

"Let's not speak about Him," Thierry said darkly. "I hope he's enjoying the _Chelsea_ and that is the end of the matter."

"Yes. Fair. Just to check - which 'Him' are we talking about? Because there've been a couple recently - "

"Let's not speak about either of them."

"Aye aye, Captain."

"I've just remembered," Jamie said, "Captain Corden and Flintoff are probably still languishing on some random island."

"That's all right." Jack waved a dismissive hand. "They weren't needed for this narrative, anyway. We can write them off as inconvenient plot loopholes, like how we've just had rip-roaring sex while sunburnt."

"I'm confused," Jamie whined.

"You're always confused," Thierry pointed out.

"It looks good on you," Jack said fondly, and reached up to kiss them both all over again.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Time period: roughly 1800, or the GOLDEN AGE OF SAIL
> 
> Title: [Billy Joel wrote a song about ships, fuck u](https://www.newsday.com/entertainment/celebrities/billy-joel-s-romance-with-the-sea-1.6516248)
> 
> AN INCOMPLETE LIST OF REFERENCES mostly because I forgot to save a bunch of 'em:  
> \- Ship Info: [x](https://www.britannica.com/technology/ship/History-of-ships) [x](https://beyond-the-shore.obsidianportal.com/wikis/ship-types) [x](http://brethrencoast.com/Pirate_Ships.html) [x](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Third-rate) [x](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Three-decker) [x](https://www.q-files.com/history/pirates-galleons/inside-a-pirate-ship/)  
> \- Minced Pies and Immanuel Kant did exist in the 18th century, thanks very much  
> \- I did google [sea terms](https://sealogs.com/sea-blogs/vessel-terms/) just to make those Sky and Dier jokes  
> \- Naval battles: [x](https://www.quora.com/Wasnt-it-hard-to-perform-naval-battles-with-cannons-on-the-side-of-the-ship) [x](http://web.mit.edu/hwebb/www/ionian.html)  
> \- THE FA CUP! Redders was injured for the 2001 final lmao  
> \- Jack x James's Dad Party did actually happen  
> \- Jack tweeted [I love Manchester United](https://twitter.com/jackwhitehall/status/938521417083170818) at PSchmeich... who knows what that was  
> \- 1798 a reference to 1998, ofc, shakes fist  
> \- I _feel_ like I've seen Jack in specs before? Anyway [they did exist in the 1700s](https://www.college-optometrists.org/the-college/museum/online-exhibitions/virtual-spectacles-gallery/eighteenth-century-spectacles.html)  
>  \- [Ever need to start a fire?](https://www.artofmanliness.com/articles/9-ways-to-start-a-fire-without-matches/)  
> \- YAS, that was a [nemesis](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/4a/c5/d5/4ac5d54f2385e966e2527a1723b75155.jpg) reference  
> \- Pirate clothes! [x](http://www.cindyvallar.com/dress.html) [x](http://thepirateempire.blogspot.com/2013/04/pirate-clothes.html)  
> \- [Grease for Sunburn](https://www.reddit.com/r/AskHistorians/comments/36dyap/how_did_sailors_in_the_golden_age_of_piracy_deal/)  
> \- [Monmouth caps](http://www.personal.utulsa.edu/~marc-carlson/jennifer/Monmouth.htm)  
> \- Pirate roles! [x](http://www.thewayofthepirates.com/pirate-life/who-is-who/) [x](https://www.thoughtco.com/positions-duties-on-a-pirate-ship-2136230) (I can't bELIEVE how nice the coincidence of 'gunner' is)  
> \- Bergkamp did score 120 goals for Arsenal  
> \- Do hemp sails double up as penalty cheat sheets? u bet  
> \- Three nautical miles is a LEAGUE :> winkwonk  
> \- There are way too many references/jokes to list but tell me if you spotted 'em all hurhurhur
> 
> thanks for reading! Love u lots sab <333


End file.
